


Eaten by Birds

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Depression, Disfigurement, M/M, Past Suicide Attempt, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9589355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: In which Josh loses his lower jaw and Tyler is the lucky paramedic who finds him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration: shannon mcfarland from _invisible monsters_ by chuck palahniuk
> 
> translation into русский available: [Съеденный птицами](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5404881) by [польза](https://ficbook.net/authors/21397)

Josh hears, "You should _not_ be alive right now," and agrees wholeheartedly. Head thick with a fog he was positive had been freed, his body hums and lightly rattles atop the gurney in the back of an ambulance. The sirens echo, and the lights force Josh to go cross-eyed. He shuts his eyes, and then there's a hand wrapped in latex shaking him.

"Stay with me," the paramedic says, urgent and firm. Quieter, they repeat their previous sentiment: Josh shouldn't be alive. But he _is_. Josh is alive.

"Keep your eyes on me." They grab Josh's hand and squeeze with all their might. "Stay with me. We're almost there. You're doing so well."

Josh thinks the paramedic has brown eyes. He doesn't remember what comes after. There's a throbbing in his chest, creeping up to his mouth, and all he can see is black.

*

Josh hears, "You should _not_ be alive right now," and still agrees with every fiber of his being. In and out, every inhale and every exhale makes him wish he weren't able to open his eyes, to move his hands, to touch and feel and feel and _feel_.

His mom jumps from the seat by his bed and reaches for his hand. She squeezes. Josh grows limp. "My beautiful boy," she says, tears sticking to her bottom lashes.

Weighed down, glued to his pillow, Josh stares at her. The tears in her eyes attach to his own, and he sniffs, chest heaving, shoulders shaking, and she screams for a nurse.

More hands in latex, they touch him, push his hair from his face, inspect more, study him, and the nurse presses her lips together to keep from smiling or laughing or expressing any sort of emotional response. "He's grieving, Mrs. Dun," she says, and lightly pats Josh's cheek. She has green eyes.

"I thought… something was wrong. He… Oh, _God_."

Jordan takes this moment to enter the room. It's as if this is his first time seeing his older brother. His face twists in pain, in disgust.

Josh shakes again.

Jordan ducks his head. "So, surgery can fix it, right?"

"Surgery is an option." The nurse removes her hand. Josh craves latex. He craves human contact. His mom won't touch him. He curls his fingers toward her, but she ignores him.

"What do you mean, an _option_?" she asks, taking Jordan's repulsion and making it hers. "He _needs_ to have surgery. Have you se—?" But her words fall and hang in the air.

Josh's heart races, loud enough to notice, loud enough to evoke guilt. He crosses his arms over his chest.

"Surgery is an option," the nurse repeats, and leaves the room. Jordan follows her, and then his mom takes her departure.

This time, when Josh cries, no one stops him.

*

Josh tries uploading a selfie to Instagram to show his friends he's okay, but it is removed due to graphic content.

*

He uploads it again.

Instagram removes it again.

He uploads a picture of his face again, only his eyes and upper face this time. Supposedly, it isn't against the guidelines.

The caption reads, _you guys have probably heard from my sisters or my mom about what happened to me and I want you all to know I'm okay. this is the third time I have tried to upload this and I hope it doesn't get removed. I'm alive and I don't know how long I'm expected to stay in the hospital but I am not opposed to visitors._

His first comment is from Jack. _Dude your fucking face._ He must have seen the pictures before someone reported them.

Josh doesn't know how to reply, so he says, _I know_ , and tries not to cry.

But he cries. He cries for the rest of the night.

*

A police officer visits him in the morning. She has blue eyes and a kind voice. She smells like strawberries.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Josh? Is it okay if I call you 'Josh'?"

Josh nods.

She pulls up a chair and smiles. Either she's a pro at hiding her discomfort, or she's a good person. Everything points toward the former. "Your mom is outside the room. Do you want her in here with you while I ask you some questions?"

A shrug means an affirmative to her.

Legs bent, hands in her lap, his mom perches on the edge of his bed, pale in the face, not even attempting to notice Josh's wiggling fingers and wet eyes.

"So, Josh," says the officer, her smile as bright as ever, "how are you feeling?"

Josh shrugs again.

"Okay." She presses the tip of her pen to her notepad, poised and ready. "What happened, Josh? I listened to the 911 tape from the bystander, but I would like to hear it from your own mouth."

At the word choice, a whimper leaves his mother. He tries not to roll his eyes as he goes on to explain.

Josh says, "Someone shot me," but it doesn't come out like that. If the police officer were to transcribe what he just said, she would write something to the effect of _blub blub gulp gulb mmmmmluplupblb_.

His mom breaks at that. She holds her head in her hands and weeps—rather dramatically. Josh raises an eyebrow and passes over the box of tissues on the nightstand. Shaking, she plucks out a few and dabs her eyes.

"Write it down?" the officer suggests, and hands Josh her notepad and pen.

 _Why didn't you make me write it down in the first place?_ he writes. _Now I'm embarrassed and my mom is having a breakdown._

The officer isn't kind anymore. She sucks her lips into her mouth. "I apologize, Josh."

 _Whatever_.

"What happened, Josh?" She's harsh now—bad cop. Josh's name sounds like a curse, patronizing from an authority figure.

He's defiant. After scribbling his answer, he tosses the notepad on the bed. All eyes fall to the sheet of paper, and Josh listens to his mom howl and the officer sigh at his scrawl.

 _Birds ate my face_.

*

The next day, another officer visits. This one is a man, as if that'll make it all okay.

"Hey, Josh," he says, "wanna talk to me?" Fast eyes and a cheeky grin, he walks toward Josh's bed like he knows a secret. His posture is relaxed, and he leans against the footboard, all elbows, cocky attitude. If Josh cooperates, he'll learn the secret. What if it's important? What if it's the cure for cancer?

Josh nods.

The officer says, "So, tell me, what happened on Sunday?" He gives Josh a notepad and a pen. They're the same as the other officer's, but this time, the ink that flows from the pen is red. Scathing and demanding, it makes Josh smile.

 _Someone shot me_ , he says. _I guess someone found me too, since I remember riding in an ambulance_.

"Good, good." Arms over his chest, still leaning, the officer nods in approval. "What else? Do you remember who shot you? We found a gun, along with a pair of gloves, a couple hundred feet from your car."

_Fingerprints?_

"No fingerprints."

Josh lowers his head. _I don't remember anything else. I'm sorry._

"That's okay, man. It isn't your fault. This isn't your fault. Just an unfortunate accident."

*

Late at night, early in the morning, Josh takes another selfie and, this time, uploads it to Facebook. It's on there for an hour before it's removed.

The picture had over one hundred comments.

*

Josh misses potato chips.

He expresses this to Jordan, who wrinkles his nose and says, "Well, I guess, like… you _could_ make a smoothie."

Josh says, "Make one for me, then," and Jordan shakes his head and says, "Stop that."

*

Josh is able to walk from his room if he wanted. And he does want to leave. He can't stay in his room for too long, but it's like his mom has an alarm in her head. Every time Josh makes a move toward the door, in a whirl of winter coat and blonde hair, she's shooting into the room and railing him with twenty questions.

"Where are you going? The bathroom's over there. You don't need to get up. What do you need? Food? I can get you something from the cafeteria. _Pudding!_ I can get you some pudding!"

Four times in a row, she scurries to get him pudding, but for now, today, the fifth time, Josh gets enough sense to duck from the room once she starts down the hall.

He doesn't know where he's going to go. He doesn't even know why he's still here. As far as he knows, he's allowed to leave, but his mom keeps him confined to that room, like a cage, like some sort of oddity to be preserved.

 _Birds ate my face_.

Josh is thankful he's, at least, allowed to wear his own clothes. The gown started to get itchy.

Unable to make up his mind, Josh decides to take the elevator to the cafeteria. Speeding away in her tennis shoes, his mom will take the stairs, and Josh will pass her, and she will be none the wiser in regards to where her monstrous son had gone.

 _Birds ate my face_.

To the relief of many, save for the group of paramedics in the corner munching on Wendy's, Josh enters the cafeteria without a second glance. Sure, some of the workers manning the salad bar offer their wide eyes and parted lips, but Josh doesn't care about that.

He starts to care when one of them makes gagging noises and has to hide in the back room. Attention-seeking, the hacking brings the gazes of the paramedics into his line of sight. Josh freezes. They do, too.

Suddenly, one of the paramedics raises their hand and waves. A big wave with a smile to accompany it, they greet Josh. "Hey, I remember you! Josh! I'm glad you're okay!"

Josh is still frozen, feet unable to move, like the pads on the undersides of his socks melted into the tile. At this point of his life, Josh doesn't know if he wants the paramedic's kind words. He doesn't know if he wants to leave the cafeteria, either. He doesn't know a lot. He doesn't want to know.

In purgatory, Josh waits for someone else to make a move.

The paramedic stands and walks toward him. "You are okay, right?" Concern seen from a mile away, Josh realizes the paramedic is the person in the back of the ambulance who held onto his hand, who told him he shouldn't be alive right now.

"Are you okay?" A needed repeat, the paramedic's eyes are brown. His eyes are brown.

Josh nods. He smiles, but doesn't feel like it's a smile.

On his windbreaker, "Tyler" is stitched onto his left breast. Josh remembers that, as well, on the night he rode in the ambulance. It only dawns on him now. Josh looks at his feet.

"I'm glad you're okay, Josh." Tyler seems genuine. He touches Josh's shoulder. He isn't scared to touch him. "You hungry? Want to sit with us?"

Josh says, "I can't eat that."

Tyler laughs. "That's okay. Come on."

Josh follows.

Tyler doesn't introduce him to his other paramedic friends. Instead, he pulls up a chair and acts as if Josh has been here all along. Of course the other paramedics take notice, but they were trained to look at much more gruesome and traumatic sights than Josh, so they don't complain. Like Tyler, they don't look remotely disgusted.

"Here." Tyler slides his box of fries toward Josh. "I took out all the hard bits."

Pudding, pudding, pudding, his mom would feed him if he protested. He couldn't force his mouth shut to keep from the plastic spoon entering because… _well_.

She said, "It's either pudding, or I'll march right to the grocery store and get baby food. Now, what do you want?"

Pudding, pudding, and more pudding, Josh took food for granted. He wants more. He needs more.

Fries? Josh can try fries.

A doctor told him he'd need to hold his tongue to the roof of his mouth and act as if it were his lower jaw. Then, he'd need to grind whatever food he was eating into his top row of teeth, almost like he were chewing, but not quite. With pudding, he can swallow it down, no problem. Solid food, like fries or other soft foods, he needs to take it slow and make sure it's thoroughly mushed until he can swallow.

When he swallows, he raises his gaze and realizes he has an audience. They're amazed.

Tyler smiles.

"So, uh, if you don't mind the prying," a man across from Josh says, scratching his face, "Brendon" on his jacket. "What happened?"

Obviously, it's the elephant in the room. Josh is slow. A speech therapist visits once a day, for an hour. It's the only chance he's allowed conversation. His mom doesn't want him to talk. She wants to pretend her son is _normal_.

Josh is slow.

They hear, "Ildch uhhah ah achhe _."_

Brendon laughs. Tyler nudges Josh in the ribs. "Must've been a pretty big bird."

More laughter. Josh is happy.

Then, his mom walks in, furious, not quite frightened, just shocked. "Josh," she spats, and stomps over to their table. "What are you _doing_?"

Josh holds up the box of fries and shakes them.

She frowns. "I got you pudding."

Josh says, "I don't fucking want pudding," but her frown deepens.

"Come upstairs. The doctor's going to see you soon."

"Excuse me," Tyler cuts in, pulling his sleeves to his palms. "I'm only a paramedic and not an expert, but just by sight alone, it looks like Josh is healthy. He shouldn't be here. He should be at home."

"No," Josh's mom presses. "He needs to be _here_."

Josh sticks another fry between the roof of his mouth and tongue.

"Why does he need to be here?" Tyler huffs a little, brow furrowing. "Does he have an infection?"

"No, but—"

"Don't you think his mental and emotional health will recover as quickly as his physical health if he were at home?"

"He needs to speak to a plastic surgeon."

Josh rolls his eyes. Brendon and the guy next to him, Dallon, slap hands to their mouths to keep from laughing aloud.

"Oh, I get it." Tyler slowly nods. "Does Josh want surgery? Or are you forcing him to—?"

"I don't know who you are, but you have no right to speak to me like that." To Josh, "Come on."

Josh continues chewing.

" _Josh_."

He swallows, runs his tongue along his top lip. "Gimme a minute."

"Josh, I'm not playing this game with you."

"I'll walk him back to his room," Tyler says, interrupting the argument to prevent further embarrassment, "so you can wait for the doctor, since it's important." He smiles. It's sick.

Josh smiles, too, and it's sicker.

At a loss, she gives Josh a lingering glare, not allowing it to be soft for a moment. Josh is hard. Josh is tough. Josh is watching her leave the cafeteria and turn down the hall.

Tyler asks, "Are you okay?"

Josh says, "Yeah."

Tyler pats his arm. "Good."

*

They take the stairs. It's a longer trip, but neither Josh nor Tyler want to leave the other. Absently, from time to time, Tyler's palm curves into the small of Josh's back. Sometimes it stays for a second, and sometimes it stays for a minute, for two minutes. Tyler's palm is warm.

"Thank you," Josh says, once they reach his floor. Tyler stares at him, so Josh tries to use sign language. Everybody knows how to say thanks in ASL, but seemingly for the first time since his accident, Josh realizes he doesn't have a chin in order to sign thanks. He panics for a moment, patting the air where his lower jaw would be. Eyes wide, inhaling and inhaling and inhaling, Josh curls his fingers, claws, claws.

Tyler takes his wrist, warm palm, and strokes thumb into wrist, into veins, into skin. "You're okay," Tyler whispers. "You're welcome, yeah? 'Thank you'."

"Thank you," Josh says.

"Yeah." Maybe it's due to the lighting in the hall, but Tyler's eyes are wet, like he's about to cry.

Josh is crying. Silent tears, rolling down his cheeks, Josh holds his tongue to the roof of his mouth and says, "Thank you."

"There you go." Tyler nods. "Good job."

"Tyler," Josh tries next. "Thank you, Tyler."

They fall, then. Tyler wipes them away, casting them from view. "Tyler, yeah. My name's Tyler. Say it again?"

"Tyler."

"Again."

"Tyler."

More tears, Tyler wipes them from his eyes. "Last time I saw you, you…" A shiver passes through his body, rocking him from side to side, one foot to the other. "Didn't think they'd even… get you cleaned up. There was so much blood. Visceral. I see a lot of scary stuff, but… not like you."

"I'm special."

Tyler smiles as if he understands the joke. They're not walking anymore, just standing off to the side. Josh's room is a few feet to Josh's left, the door closed, his mother presumably inside.

Josh stays with Tyler. Tyler stays with Josh.

"What happened?" Tyler's voice is hushed. This is the desirable secret—not the cure for cancer. What happened to Josh? _Birds ate my face_. "The radio said potential hit and run, gunfire involved," Tyler continues, sticking his fingers into his hair. "Hell of a gunshot wound. They fixed you up really well."

Josh can't post a selfie on Instagram.

"Have they caught the person who did this to you?"

Josh shakes his head.

"Any news at all?"

Another shake of the head.

Tyler presses his lips together, pausing. "I'll find out some stuff for you, okay? I'm good at eavesdropping."

The door down the hall opens. Josh's mom steps out and _stares_. She stares and slowly crosses her arms over her chest. Josh mirrors her posture. Tyler thinks this is funny. "I'll see ya later, Josh. You can have visitors, right? I'll drop in now and then, assuming you're staying here for a little while longer." Annoyed and stiff, Tyler digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek. He means to say something else, but he stops himself. It'll turn into a tangent.

"I'll see ya later, Josh."

Josh goes into his room, his mom following. The bed tray's out and ready for a consumer. Two cups of chocolate pudding sit. Josh feels ill.

In a chair by the bed, the doctor goes through the papers strapped to his clipboard. Whether it's Josh's file doesn't matter. He's here to talk with Josh about _options_.

Whatever that means.

Josh climbs onto the bed and pushes away the tray. His mom moves it back. He decides it's not worth the fight.

"Josh," the doctor says, with a smile too white and too even. It's a wonder how he can smile; Botox erases the lines on his forehead. "Your mother here told me you've expressed interest in plastic surgery."

Quiet.

He moves on, "Now, I have some pictures of other gunshot wound victims and their surgery results." The clipboard clip is crisp as it snaps shut, empty. "Keep in mind these results are achieved after many surgeries. It doesn't happen overnight."

"No," Josh says.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, 'no'."

"Write it down for me."

On the back of a photo of a woman with blurs for eyes and missing her nose, Josh writes in black ink, _I don't want plastic surgery._

His mom catches sight of the paper, and she grabs it before the doctor reads. "Don't mind him. Go on."

Josh groans loudly, tossing his head on his pillow and kicking his feet.

" _Josh_. Behave."

Josh does, for the most part. He sits, arms over his chest, and doesn't bother holding his tongue to the roof of his mouth. His first doctor, the one who fixed his face the best they could, advised him to keep it there, so as to get acquainted with using it for chewing—but there was also a hint of keeping it there to prevent discomfort from anyone around him. Josh recalls the taste of latex as his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth by little force from fingertips. He remembers having his head turned from the right to the left, and back again, and finally let go with a doctor or a nurse or whoever going, "Well, it's the best we can do right now."

So, Josh lets it hang, the red muscle more of a part of his neck than mouth, and pretends as if nothing is wrong.

His mom is pissed. "Josh."

Josh looks at the doctor. He ignores her. It works.

"Pictures?" the doctor offers, maybe grossed out, but unable to tell from the poison under his skin.

Josh shrugs.

That means an affirmative to the doctor, too.

*

None of Josh's friends visit him. Judging by what they say through text and Facebook messages, they simply don't have the time.

Josh picks at his nails and stays in his bed. Legs straight, arms by his sides as index fingers scratch, scratch, scratch at thumbnail cuticles, Josh looks at the ceiling and counts the light fixtures. Thick wool around his body, the blanket is stained brown in spots. Chocolate pudding, chocolate pudding, the bin by his bed is full with plastic cups and spoons. The acids in his stomach churn at the thought of another swallow.

Josh misses pizza.

He misses human contact—not the kind of gentle hand pats and corny jokes from his parents and siblings. No, he wants hugs and fingers in his hair and _kissing_.

He misses kissing.

Josh doesn't remember if his dad visited him yet. That first night, yes, Josh remembers seeing his whole family. But his mind was fuzzy, and his head was wrapped, so maybe he imagined it.

Josh cries.

*

The police officer from before, the woman, comes over. She brings a strawberry milkshake and holds it for him while he slurps.

 _Any news?_ Josh writes in her notepad, ink of her pen a blue color today.

"I'm sorry, Josh," she says, regrettably so. "Serial number gone, no fingerprints, original seller out of business—we have no leads." It's painful to hear the words from her mouth. Tinged with empathy, she asks Josh if he has enemies, exes, anybody who would do this to him.

Birds?

Josh takes another sip of strawberry. She sighs. "It's okay, Josh. We'll get you justice."

_What if this was a random encounter?_

She moves the straw around the cup, scraping the froth toward the center. "We're starting to believe it was. Some random encounter, huh? A drive by, and you just happened to have your window open at the same moment the incident occurred?"

Josh looks at the notepad.

"Very, very unfortunate."

*

Josh has a consultation with a plastic surgeon the following Monday.

*

He's starting to get bad again.

*

Visiting hours end at nine, not that it matters. His parents work, his siblings have school, and Josh's purpose is to wait patiently for someone to fix his face.

There's a clock above the television set, one that glows in the dark. A makeshift nightlight, Josh catches himself gazing at the green letters without meaning to do so. Even with the TV on, he can't help but let his head rest on his pillow and drift up, up, up, to the clock, to the ceiling, to somewhere not so suffocating.

Solace comes in the form of three short knocks on the door. "Josh, you awake?"

It's now fifteen past nine, fifteen past visiting hours, and Tyler wants to see him.

Josh says, "Yeah," and maneuvers his bed into a suitable sitting angle.

Tyler closes the door behind him. He's wearing a sweatshirt and a baseball cap. On his off hours, he's carrying a board game under his arm and a bag from the local bakery hooked on his elbow. "Hello. Hope I didn't wake you."

"You didn't."

Tyler smiles, cheeks a bit pink from the wind outside. "Yeah?"

Josh feels a sinking in his chest. He looks at his hands and scrubs at the dry blood on the beds of his nails.

"You should try this." Tyler sets the board game and bakery bag on the bed tray. It's _Candy Land_ , even in its old packaging. Carefully, he pulls out a small loaf of bread, unwraps it. Smelling of cinnamon, Josh presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "Really soft," Tyler says, and breaks off a little piece for Josh. "Need it a bit smaller?"

Josh shakes his head. The bread crumbles during the passing, but Josh gobbles it up anyway. Much sweeter than every single thing he's eaten since his admission, Josh whimpers. It comes out all wrong.

Tyler reads it the right way. He gives Josh another piece, this one a smidge bigger. "Want to play?" He points at _Candy Land_. "Or we can talk. Do whatever. Figured you'd be bored."

"Talk?" Josh speaks too soon. Bread falls from the sides of his tongue.

Using a tissue pulled from the box on the nightstand, Tyler cleans Josh the best he can. It's slow and delicate.

Josh's eyes are wet.

"Yes," Tyler says. "We can talk. Unless you want to write?" Sticking the tissue in the pocket of his sweatshirt, he reaches over and tugs the bed tray. Sat at the foot of Josh's bed, the tray comes between them. A mock table, Tyler slides _Candy Land_ around until he gets a grip on the lid to open it. Apart from the game itself, Tyler also stored a spiral notebook, several ballpoint pens, and a phone charger inside. He acts as if these are a secret. This is the type of secret Josh enjoys.

"So, write or talk?" Tyler knows the weight of both, but doesn't have a preference. As if to sway Josh's decision, Tyler adds, "I'm a good listener."

"Talk," Josh says, because practice makes perfect.

"Just in case," Tyler says, and takes out the notebook and most of the pens. "Plus, I kinda wanna doodle."

Tearing off another piece of bread, Josh watches Tyler turn to a blank sheet of paper. He clicks his pen. "How have you been?"

"Why aren't you at work?"

Tyler pauses. "Repeat."

Josh repeats.

It wasn't what Tyler expected. He thought he'd have a one-word answer, not a totally different subject. "Technically, I'm off tonight, but I'm always on the clock. I'll only be called in if there's a shortage of drivers." Tyler draws a cat face in purple. "I, um, I found out some stuff about your investigation."

"Shit," Josh says.

"Yeah." Tyler frowns. "I'm sorry, Josh. I don't know how this can ever be made up to you. The person who did this needs to be brought in and charged appropriately. I've heard attempted murder floating around."

"Only if they catch the guy, though."

Tyler takes a bit longer to respond. Josh eats more of the bread. "So, it was a guy?"

Josh shrugs.

Tyler nods and draws a dog now. "Probably more likely it'd be a guy. Statistically."

Josh takes apart the bread. He hopes Tyler doesn't notice the dry blood on his cuticles he couldn't scrub away with saliva.

"It just… _really fucking sucks_ , Josh." Tyler applies pressure to the pen, gaze raising to stare at Josh as he continues talking. Josh eyes the pen bleeding. "Some asshole is out there, probably enjoying their life, probably thinking you're dead, when they should be behind bars. What they did to you is unforgivable."

The dog's muzzle is black, the blue so dark, sticky. Tyler eases the pen from the paper, connected like glue. "So, um." Tyler stops drawing. He puts his hands in his lap. "Did you… see a plastic surgeon yet?"

"Monday." Josh drops his hands in his lap, too, not hungry anymore.

"That must be exciting." Tyler smiles.

Josh shrugs. His tongue hangs limply by his neck.

Tyler slides him the notebook and a pen. This one is green. Josh pushes over the bread, and Tyler munches.

_I already talked to a doc and they showed me before and after pictures and it was cool how they did all that stuff but I'm scared_

"Understandable. It's okay to be scared, you know? Especially with this. _Especially_ with this."

_I know but_

Josh blinks. He pulls his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "I don't want plastic surgery." Writing it down is more effective. He writes it over and over, too much, not enough.

_I don't want plastic surgery I don't want plastic surgery I don't want plastic surgery I don't want plastic surgery i don't want plastic surgery i dont want plastic surgery idont want it i don't want plastic surgery I_

"Josh." Tyler touches Josh's hand. An electric shock, Josh tosses the pen against the tray. Echoing, loud, Josh groans, and Tyler says, "Josh," again, and Josh cries. He's crying and running his fingers over his face. Eyebrows, nose, mouth—he has no mouth. He tugs on his top lip, feels the slimy exterior of the uppermost row of teeth, and then… he falls, scrambling for purchase on something that isn't there anymore. He might as well be hyperventilating. He's choking, choking himself, hands tight on the next part of his body, on his neck, tight, tight, squeezing.

"Josh," Tyler says, and he pushes the tray, swinging it around, and he crawls across the bed, his shoes still on and getting the blankets dirty, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. Tyler takes hold of Josh's hands and brings their foreheads together. The lid of his baseball cap tilts up, balancing on the crown of Josh's head. "Holy crap, Josh, you don't need to do it. You don't need to—" He stops talking because Josh is whining. Long and drawn out, he shakes Tyler's hands away and clings to Tyler's shoulders, his biceps. Josh holds onto Tyler, forehead to forehead, and cries. He cries, and it feels good. He cries, and Tyler rubs his back, and it feels good.

It would be a lie if Josh would go on to say he didn't know what got into him. He knows why he's a mess. A breakdown like this is expected, and honestly, it's overdue. Josh is surprised he lasted this long. He cried from time to time, but it's never been like this—full-blown weeping with snot and blurry vision and unable to catch his breath.

Tyler holds him throughout it all, rocking them, rubbing his back. Cooing, too, Tyler tells Josh everything's going to be okay.

The worst things Josh had to worry about were pimples. He has some of them now, right around his nostrils, but they're in the furthest part of his brain. Compared to missing his lower jaw, a few pimples is nothing. He would gladly take a face full of acne over _this_ —this being the hole in his chest, the ache in his limbs, the burn in his eyes. He could care less if he looks like a monster. He can laugh about it. He can make jokes. _Birds ate my face._

"Hey," Tyler says, his hand going in a clockwise motion. "Calming down?" It isn't patronizing. It's concern.

Josh nods.

"Okay if I pull away?"

Josh nods.

Tyler pulls the tissue from his sweatshirt pocket and uses it to clean up Josh's nose, then tries to toss it in the trash bin. He makes it. He smiles.

"Stay with me," Josh says, "for a few more hours, at least. Please."

"Repeat."

Josh does, slowly.

"Of course I will." Tyler reaches across the bed, pulling the tray back around. "As long as you need me to."

Instead of sitting across from Josh, Tyler sits beside him. There's enough room if they cross ankles and condense.

"Wanna play _Candy Land_ now?" Tyler asks.

Josh says, "Yeah," and eats more of the bread, Tyler taking a couple bites as he gets the game ready.

"You know," Tyler starts, fixing the cap on his head, still tilted up from their forehead-touching. "I'm really impressed with you. You held on. In the back of that ambulance, I was terrified. I thought you were gonna leave me, but you held on. For what it's worth, I'm proud of you. What color do you wanna be?"

Josh cries, but it's quiet. He doesn't need to be held. "Blue."

Tyler chooses green. He makes the first move, both in the game and off; he uncrosses his ankles and slowly drapes his leg over Josh's leg. They're tangled together like this, crossing, becoming one, and it feels good.

Tyler smiles at him, and it feels good.

Tyler feeds him more bread, and it feels good.

Tyler is happy with him, and it feels good.

*

Tyler leaves sometime after midnight. "I have a load of laundry I gotta do. I'll see ya later, Josh."

Josh sleeps soundly for the first time since his accident.

*

On Monday, he sits with his parents in the office of the on-call plastic surgeon. He has more Botox and bloody gums from a teeth bleaching appointment during his lunch break an hour ago.

Josh says, carefully, with polite and courteous and easy-to-understand enunciation, "I decided I'm not going to have plastic surgery."

But the doctor doesn't know how to listen. "Write it down?"

Josh does. His mom can't grab it in time.

"That's okay," the doctor says, and he means it.

"No," Josh's mom says. "You need to fix him. You need to—he needs to—"

"Laura," Josh's dad says. "I know you want the best for him, but this is Josh's choice."

Josh smiles.

She covers her face, about to start crying. " _But he needs…_ "

"Well, it _is_ getting colder outside," the doctor cuts in, trying to ease the tension with a lighthearted offer. "Might I suggest a scarf to conceal the affected area?"

*

Josh leaves the hospital that evening.

His mom uses the excuse "the police have your car" as to why Josh can't drive, despite it being false.

His dad has the keys, and he gives them to Josh as they stand outside the hospital. "They cleaned it up. There was… a lot of blood."

"Did they find anything?" Josh sighs at the blank expression and sends a text.

"Oh, no," his dad responds verbally. "Just blood. Some, uh… bone, too. But you know how that goes."

Josh keeps his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

For the most part, he's happy.

And then, as he's getting ready for bed in his own bed, in his own little apartment, the last sliver of _something's wrong_ smacks him and smacks him until he can't go to sleep.

Tyler.

Josh wants Tyler.

*

If Josh wanted to kill himself, he wouldn't be able to swallow pills.

*

Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking.

*

Before his accident, Josh worked at Guitar Center with his friend, Jack. Josh doesn't think he'll ever be allowed to work in customer service again.

He texts Jack to ask, and Jack goes on to ponder the obvious.

_How does your face look? Did they fix it?_

Josh sends a selfie, and Jack responds immediately.

_Yeah dude, I don't think that's gonna cut it_

_I wear a scarf around my face. No one will see. I won't talk._

_It's not my decision_

_What if I just walked in tomorrow with the scarf on? I can work in the back. Won't even talk to anybody_

_Maybe._

Josh tries. The boss knows of his accident, of what happened, and they let Josh keep to himself in the backrooms, stocking, taking inventory. On their lunch break, they want to see Josh's face, so Josh unravels the thick black scarf and lets it hang from his neck. Jack is in the same room as this occurs, chowing down on a cheeseburger. Because Josh is his friend, he conceals his disgust by smiling and wrapping his meal in its yellow paper to consume later.

For good measure, since he has an audience, Josh moves his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and then lets it drop to a relaxed position—an extra layer to his throat.

His boss' hand is holding back something no doubt offensive. "Josh…"

"Wanna hear me try to talk?" Josh asks, and his boss shuts their eyes.

Jack leaves the room.

"Birds ate my face," Josh says, and smiles.

"Keep that shit covered up around customers. You're lucky I'm letting you stay."

Josh wraps the scarf around and around and around his mouth, up to his nose. It smells of the back of his closet.

"Did your insurance not cover the operation to fix that? Holy shit, we can start, like, crowdsourcing."

"I don't want plastic surgery."

"No one can fucking understand you."

"Good," Josh says. "It wouldn't be the first time."

*

If not pills, then Josh could cut himself.

*

Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking.

*

At home, Josh forgoes the scarf.

He sits on the sofa and eats baby food. He doesn't want to risk choking with no one around to save him.

*

At home, Josh spends an hour every night looking at himself in the mirror.

He's on the floor as he does this, criss-cross applesauce, and inspects every inch of himself in that full-body mirror in his bedroom. When he was sexually active, the mirror was a portal and an escape and a nuisance for flash on cameras. Now, it is a mere reminder of how empty he feels. Surroundings a hazard, no one to cling to blankets or bed sheets, the reminders are not welcome.

There's a fog in his head. He wants it free.

He tried, he tries, he will try.

*

His mom invites him for dinner on a Friday. It's over text, so she doesn't have to hear Josh talk.

_You can have spaghetti, can't you?_

_Maybe_

Josh isn't sure.

They sit around the kitchen table, a seemingly happy family, and slurp up spaghetti noodles and tear up garlic bread.

Josh can't slurp. He takes his time. The bread is soft. He doesn't think about Tyler. He thinks about Tyler.

No one directs conversation his way.

*

That Saturday, Josh dials 911, but doesn't start the call.

He's huddled under four blankets, just kept adding more and more until the suffocating weight felt like a cushion rather than a burden. It's late, and he knows he should sleep, but it's late, it's late, it's too late.

Instead of calling, Josh sends a text. He can't possibly expect a dispatcher to listen to him, to understand him. He feels sick. Josh is sick.

_Hey okay I'm not in any real danger but I'm not in a safe place right now and I'm scared I'm gonna do something irrational. I need someone to come get me and make sure I don't do something stupid_

The reply is automatic. _Hello there! We're here to help. Can you tell me your name and address?_

Josh does.

_Are you positive you're not in danger, Josh? Tell me more about what's happened._

Josh says, _I can't stop thinking about hurting myself and I don't want to, I really don't, but I'm scared something is going to happen to me._

 _Are you in danger?_ Mentioned three times, Josh tells the truth now.

_Yes, I think I'm going to hurt myself._

_We'll send help your way. Keep talking to me until they arrive._

_Okay_

_Do you have a favorite band?_

Josh only needs one hand to reply to a text, and even then, he can set down the phone and do something else—like pushing the blankets from his body, like going into the bathroom, like pulling his sweatshirt sleeve up his arm.

Ten minutes later, the police arrive to assess the scene. Two women, one sits with Josh on the couch as her partner goes to inspect the bedroom, bathroom, and other suspect areas.

"How about you take that scarf off your face?" she asks, pointing with her index finger and thumb, like a gun. "What are you hiding under there?"

Josh shakes his head. He hurriedly covered the horrendous blemish at the knocking on his front door—among other things—thinking it would have been kinder. Somehow it isn't. He can never win.

"Everything checks out okay, that I can see," the second officer claims, strolling into the living room. "We'll call that ambulance for you now, make sure you're safe for the rest of the night."

The woman by his side is still transfixed on the scarf. She wants him to take it off. She wants him to talk.

Her partner does. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

Josh is thankful his sweatshirt is black.

"Lemme see your face."

Josh fakes confidence. He rips the scarf off, down to his neck, and the police officers have wide eyes, but they aren't disgusted. They have seen worse.

"Hey," says the officer next to him.

"Everything hurts," Josh says.

They're disgusted now, both standing as one goes outside to call for an ambulance. Josh hears it from his spot on the couch. "We have a suicidal man who needs transportation to someplace safe. It looks as if he hasn't harmed himself."

She peeks inside for a second. "Have you harmed yourself?"

"Yes," Josh admits.

She goes back on the front porch. "Yeah, doesn't look as if he harmed himself. No sirens, no lights."

Josh slings the scarf around the lower half of his face. The cartilage of his ear is sticky. He doesn't have time to ask himself why; he sees new headlights in the driveway. Would his neighbors be up this late? Would they poke their fingers into blinds and be subtle in their peeping? Would they ask Josh what happened when they saw him next? What would Josh tell them, if they were to ask?

_Birds ate my face._

The officer in charge of sitting on the sofa with him is now in charge of guiding him toward the ambulance. Phone in his pocket, an old pair of combat boots on his feet, and dressed warmly in a sweatshirt and joggers and a thin coat of perspiration, Josh follows the officer out of the house, his head low, the scarf comfortable for all.

Ambulance on the scene, there's always someone with their front door open, no matter the time. It happens now. Josh tries not to make eye contact. He does anyway. His neighbor quickly shuts the door. Their fingers appear in the set of blinds to the right.

Ambulance on the scene, the paramedic greeting Josh is familiar. Brendon, Josh remembers, Brendon gives him an assuring smile. "You're going to be okay."

Ambulance on the scene, Josh feels sicker than ever. He climbs into the back and sits atop the gurney, legs swinging, knees knocking together. He's shivering. He didn't realize he was shaking.

"Oh, my God— _Josh_."

It's Tyler. From the driver's seat to Josh, Tyler takes three steps, four steps, and he sits, and he says, "Josh, oh, Josh."

The doors are shut. Brendon climbs into the passenger seat and, seeing Tyler's new position, scoots to the driver's seat to handle the journey to the hospital. "He looks pale, Tyler."

"Worked up, exhausted. Look at the bags under his eyes."

Tyler should speak for himself. Even with the clear signs of fatigue, Tyler is chipper. He's used to this routine. A can of Red Bull rests in a cup holder up front.

"Wanna talk to me? I'd love to hear you tell me how you're doing."

Josh blinks. He keeps his gaze on his thighs, his arms, everything downcast.

Tyler frowns a little, but he reaches over to tug out a pair of latex gloves. "I'm gonna exam you, okay? Need to make sure you're all right. Can I undo your scarf?" Josh doesn't move. Tyler takes this as a yes. He's gentle, easing it from Josh's face. His eyes go from one side of Josh's face to the other, as if he were staring at each pore. He might be. He's studying Josh, lips parting to ask about whatever's on Josh's ear. Tyler finds tissues to wipe off whatever it is, tilting the tissue toward the light to show off the dull red, the brown. "Blood? Your ear was bleeding?"

"No," Josh says, but Tyler looks at it anyway.

"No cut there." Tyler is frowning more.

"Paler, Tyler," Brendon says from the front.

Josh says, "Yeah, I don't feel that good. Nothing to worry about, though. I don't plan on passing out."

Tyler's eyes go down, settling on Josh's hands, weakly hanging between his thighs. Dark colors and dark colors, Tyler holds Josh's left wrist and turns his hand so it's up to the ceiling of the ambulance. His palm is a faint brown color, old with stray blood.

"About that," Josh says.

Tyler works with delicacy. He rolls Josh's sleeve to his elbow and exposes several cuts, not deep at all, barely grazes. Josh did them with a pair of scissors kept in the medicine cabinet while he waited for the police to arrive. The blade wasn't sharp enough to do a lot of damage, but it was enough to inflame skin and bring blood.

Tyler isn't mad. He's seen worse.

He works absently. Cleaning, dressing, Josh's arm isn't nearly as bad as he wanted it to be. He can still move it. He didn't want that. He wanted to be immobile. He wanted to be free. His head is thick with a fog that is yearning to be freed.

"Hey," Tyler whispers. "We'll get you some help. You don't have to go through this alone."

Josh closes his eyes.

"Do your parents know you're here?"

Josh shakes his head.

"Do you want them to know?"

Josh shakes his head.

"We won't tell them." Tyler wraps his arms around Josh's neck, hands stuck oddly out to prevent pressing traces of blood on Josh's skin and clothes. "You're going to be okay, Josh."

"Thank you, Tyler."

"Say it again?"

"Tyler."

Brendon stops the ambulance. He sits for a moment, expression pensive, and steps from the vehicle.

"Again."

"Tyler."

"Again."

"Tyler."

*

Tyler doesn't leave Josh's side.

A doctor examines him, more intensively than Tyler—words rather than bodily. Like most people who sit with Josh and try to engage, the doctor makes Josh write down all his answers. It's daunting. It's tedious. Tyler notices the languishing way Josh holds the pen and says, "Talk, if you want to, okay?"

The doctor looks troubled—most likely due to Josh's appearance—but goes on to ask Josh more prying questions, questions Josh doesn't want to answer. He's scared. He's so scared.

"You're here because you've had thoughts about hurting yourself. Have these thoughts persisted for sometime, or are they more recent?"

Josh glances at Tyler. He says, "I've had these thoughts for a while, but they're getting worse."

"Getting worse now," Tyler says.

"Have you acted on these thoughts in the past? Have you acted on these thoughts recently?"

"Yes, to both," says Josh.

"Yes, to both," says Tyler.

"Have you thought of hurting other people?"

"Yes," says Josh.

"Yes," says Tyler.

"Have you acted on them before? Recently?"

"No, I'm a pussy," says Josh.

"No, I haven't," says Tyler.

"Have you any concrete plans for suicide?"

"No," says Josh.

"No," says Tyler.

"Why do you want to kill yourself? What do you think that will accomplish?"

"I'm a monster," says Josh.

"I feel like a burden," says Tyler.

"But what will that accomplish?"

"I'll be free," says Josh.

"I don't know," says Tyler.

"Do you have hopes for the future?"

"Not anymore," says Josh.

"I don't know," says Tyler.

"Tell me what you want to be five years from now."

"Dead," says Josh.

"Happy," says Tyler.

"Are you on medication?"

"I can't swallow pills," says Josh.

"I can't swallow pills," says Tyler.

"Therapy, then. Are you going to therapy?"

"No, never been," says Josh.

"Never been," says Tyler.

"Do you feel safe? Do you have somewhere to go when you're discharged, where you feel you're safe?"

"I don't know," says Josh.

"He's staying with me," says Tyler.

The doctor blinks. A bit perplexed, they hover their pen over their notepad, as if they're going to scribble this. "You live with him?" they ask Tyler.

"No," says Tyler, and switches the weight from one leg to the other. "But we're friends. I can watch him. He can stay with me."

Josh closes his eyes.

"What about his parents?"

"They don't know," answers Tyler. "He doesn't want them to know. He told me that on the ride over."

"Okay." Twirling the pen, the doctor continues, "I think you need some form of counseling, so these thoughts disappear. Would you prefer to speak to a therapist, or would you like to try an inpatient program?"

"I don't know, actually. I… I know I need help, but I don't know what I want."

Tyler chews on his lips. He turns his head. "Repeat." He requests this quietly.

Josh looks at Tyler, eyes wide. He slowly nods and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "Can I just talk to a therapist?"

"A therapist," says Tyler. "Would a therapist be enough for me?"

"We can certainly try. I'll provide some numbers for you to… contact."

Josh tugs on his sleeves and sticks his hands under his thighs. Tyler places his hand on Josh's shoulder. "Okay?"

Josh shrugs.

The doctor is out of the room. Tyler still whispers. "Is it cool if I kinda threw out that suggestion like that? It's totally all right if you don't want to stay with me for a few days. I'm, like, pretty much a stranger, but I didn't know what else to say to make sure your family doesn't find out about this."

Josh smiles.

Tyler rambles on. "An inpatient program would have definitely gotten their attention, assuming they check up on you every other day. You're not allowed your phone. Anything really. It sucks in there, very drab. Almost makes you wish you had succeeded in killing yourself."

Speaking candidly, it only makes Josh's heart race. He needs to check his hearing. He needs, he needs—

"It does help you, I guess. I personally wouldn't want to go, so I'm glad the therapist route is an option. I don't get why they didn't refer you to one after… _you know_."

"Why would I need to talk to a therapist after what happened to me?"

"It was fucked up," Tyler says. "Hard to process. Your life changed forever, Josh. You need to unpack that."

"I need—"

The doctor returns with names, phone numbers, and addresses. They give the paper to Josh, and he and Tyler look over the list. Tyler points at one and says, "She's really nice." Josh's mind is already made.

"So, Josh, is there anything else you need?"

Josh shakes his head.

"If you follow me, then."

After getting discharged, Josh stands outside, off to the side, and lets Tyler fix the scarf around his mouth, not too tight and not too loose. "Dallon tagged in. We can go back to my place now. Straight to bed. It's late."

Josh nods. Tyler nods with him. "It's going to be okay, Josh."

*

Tyler's apartment is small and a little cluttered. It's the home of someone with no free time. This time off is as much therapeutic to Tyler as it will be for Josh.

"Bedroom's here."

Josh follows, his boots heavy against the carpet, the shoelaces untied and trailing behind him.

Tyler's bedroom is neat. The bed hasn't been properly slept in for days, maybe weeks. "The pillows are on the couch," Tyler says, and pats Josh's back. "Get comfortable."

Josh can't remember the last time he slept over at someone's place. One-night stands were his forte. This is different. Josh feels genuinely cared for here. He sits on the edge of Tyler's bed and works off his shoes and scarf. They keep to the floor. The carpet in the room is blue.

"Pillows," Tyler says, entering the bedroom with them under his arms. "Need anything?"

"Where are you sleeping?"

Tyler fixes the bed, tossing down the covers on one side and sticking a pillow there. "Repeat."

"Where are you sleeping?"

The slightest furrow of his brow, Tyler looks at Josh and says, "My bed?"

"With me?"

"With you."

It's a good arrangement. Josh decides this as they're lying side by side, facing each other, holding a pillow to their chests. Josh is fully dressed, complete with socks, while Tyler is down to his t-shirt and boxers. In darkness, with a blanket pulled up to his nose, Josh can pretend he's with a lover, with someone ready to ravish him and make him feel wanted, desired, attractive. Like this, with the blanket up to his nose, Tyler gives him a warm smile. Tyler can look at him and pretend everything is okay, everything is as it should be.

But Tyler says, "Lemme see your face."

And Josh tugs down the blanket.

And Tyler's smile is brighter than it has ever been. "There you are."

Josh hugs his pillow tighter. "I was scared my body would reject whatever they decided to put on my face. What if I turned out uglier than I am now? Would it have been worth it?"

"Hey." Tyler scoots closer, ditching his pillow to hold Josh's hip, covered by his big sweatshirt. "You're not ugly."

Josh closes his eyes. He doesn't want to think.

"I know it's fucked up. I don't know what to say to make you feel better. You have to do what makes you happy and no one else. You didn't want plastic surgery, and that's okay. Live with that decision. Own it. Don't give in. You're above all that."

"Shut up. You're not the one missing a jaw."

"Yeah." Tyler pulls the blanket over Josh's mouth, no doubt thinking that's how Josh sleeps now. He sets his hand back on Josh's hip, under the blankets, and slides in closer. The pillow Josh clings to is getting in the way, but Josh can't let go.

"I don't think you're a monster."

Josh lets it go. He shoves it toward the head of the bed and favors wrapping his arms around Tyler's torso. "Thank you, Tyler."

"Again." Tyler holds the back of Josh's head, fingers weaving through Josh's curls. "Again and again."

"Tyler. Tyler. Tyler."

Tyler's hug is reassuring. Tyler's hug is needed.

"Tyler."

"I'm here."

"Tyler."

"I'm here. I'm here."

*

Josh dreams of park benches and feeding ducks. Tyler's with him, and they're smiling at each other. Josh's face is whole. He's happy.

More birds swoop down to enjoy the food. Josh knows what happens next. Tyler tries to help him, shooing away the birds, yelling at the top of his lungs.

"Josh," he says, "stay with me. Keep your eyes on me. You're doing so well."

Josh laughs.

*

Tyler holds a plate of pancakes under Josh's nose. It's noon. Josh's body is sore from the unfamiliar mattress.

"Hey," Tyler says, and stretches out his arm more, the plate more of a nuisance than something enjoyable.

Josh turns his body away, eyes still shut, his arms stretching, his toes curling inside his socks.

"Are you not hungry?" Tyler, finally, pulls the plate from Josh's space to set in his lap. He doesn't sound offended, just curious. "Is it your stomach?"

"I'm okay," Josh says. He slowly twists his body back around and focuses on the plate of hot food balancing on Tyler's thighs. Drizzled with syrup, the pancakes are smashed into crumbs, mindful of Josh's disability. Josh blinks several times as he pushes himself into sitting.

Tyler is eager. He presents the plate to Josh, eyes and smile bright. No words, Josh takes the plate and the fork, raking the crumbs into a big enough pile to lift and shovel into his mouth. Tyler has a napkin, and he slides it over Josh's mouth when a mess shows itself. Josh doesn't allow himself to grow embarrassed, and he doesn't allow himself to grow angry. As much as he wants to scream at Tyler that he isn't Josh's caregiver, Josh is quiet. Tyler is helping him because Tyler wants to help, not that it's some sort of obligation.

But just to be sure—

"Are you putting up with me because you like me, or do you feel guilty or feel like you owe me something?"

Tyler rips the paper towel, an inch, lips parting and pressing together.

"Do you want me to repeat it?"

"No, I'm just…" Tyler pulls the inside of his cheek into his mouth. "I'm… I don't think… it'd be very professional of me."

Josh raises his head. "You like me."

The paper towel slowly pulls apart, Tyler digging into his cheek with molars. "Yeah."

Josh takes another bite of pancake.

"Do you like me?"

The fork scratches along the plate. Josh twists the fork around in his hand. He goes simple. He already has Tyler's feelings lain out in front of him. Josh wouldn't be a heathen prying on some poor person's unrequited love. Tyler likes him, and he likes Tyler.

"Yeah."

Tyler folds the napkin. The rip disappears. "Can I feed you?"

"Why?"

"Because that's a thing couples do."

Josh smiles. Tyler feeds him, smiling, too.

*

Tyler gives Josh a spare toothbrush and tells him he can stay in bed today if he wants to do that.

"Rest is good," Tyler reasons, dirty laundry in his arms. "I'll be really quiet."

"Work?"

"Called off. They get it."

Josh doesn't, but he also doesn't question it. "Okay."

"Oh, lemme see your arm after you get done brushing your teeth. Need'a see what we're working with." Tyler drops a sock on the way to the washing machine.

No infection, the cuts are more scrapes than anything. Tyler isn't sad as he rolls Josh's sleeve up again to let the wounds get some fresh air. He's passive, indecipherable. A wrinkle in his forehead, slight purse in his lips, Tyler whispers, "I gotta tell you a secret."

Leaned up against the sink counter, Josh drops his arm by his side, limp. The tilt of his head means an affirmative. Tyler says, "I tried to… to…"

The words fall unspoken between them, yet the meaning hangs known and understood. Josh is the one to comfort with arms around shoulders and squeezing lightly. A welcome pressure, Tyler hugs Josh, his face hiding in Josh's neck. He's sniffing, shaking, cold. Tyler's skin is prickled. Josh rubs Tyler's back, his fingers curled to scratch, to massage.

Along with Josh, Tyler spends the day in bed, only getting up to switch the clothes to the dryer and to drop another load into the washer. For the rest of the day, they lie side by side, holding onto pillows with the blanket up to their chins—or nose, in Josh's case. The TV in the corner of the room hums, but neither Josh nor Tyler pays attention. They're looking at each other, at their faces, at their eyes, and Josh remembers those eyes. He can never forget those eyes. He never wants to forget those brown eyes.

*

Josh can't stay another day. His mom texts him. She wants to have dinner with the family tonight.

"What does she fix you?" Tyler asks, arms around his knees as he sits on the bed and watches Josh put on his shoes. "Is it food you can eat?"

Shrugging, Josh fixes the laces on his boots and stuffs them inside, too lazy to give them a proper tie.

"I can come over later. I can fix you something mushy."

"I have food at home."

Tyler laughs. "What, baby food?"

Josh stares at Tyler.

Tyler slowly frowns. "Crap, Josh."

"It's okay."

"Is it?"

"It has to be." Josh finds his scarf and loops it around his mouth. "Drive me home?"

"Lemme put on shoes."

At Josh's apartment, before Josh gets out of the car, Tyler leans over the central console and kisses his cheek, right on the bone, because it's safe.

Josh closes his eyes.

"Can I have your phone?" Tyler goes on to ask, hand outstretched. "I'll put in my number."

They exchange phones. Tyler's background is of a rabbit with red eyes and sharp teeth. It might be vampiric.

Tyler kisses Josh's cheekbone again. His lips are wet, and they linger. Josh's heart breaks. When his phone is returned to him, he squeezes tightly. Hard plastic creaks. Tyler leans his forehead against Josh's temple. Millennia passes. Josh cries.

Breaking apart to turn off the engine of his car, Tyler takes Josh's hand. He holds it, fingers sliding together to fill in any empty space. His forehead is to Josh's temple again, and his eyes are closed. Josh is crying.

They stay like this for ten minutes.

"Okay now?" Tyler rubs his thumb into Josh's knuckles.

Josh nods.

"Text me if you need anything."

Josh nods.

Tyler's eyes are as shiny as Josh's.

*

Josh showers. He wears long sleeves, a hoodie with Spider-Man's logo printed on the front. It's big and heavy.

His mom fixes soup and grilled cheese. She smiles at Josh and asks how he's doing. Josh tells her he's met someone. She pretends she can understand her son.

After dinner, he plays video games with his brother. Jordan doesn't flinch every time he stares at Josh for longer than three seconds. His sisters are better. They talk to him. Ashley actually listens and responds.

Josh feels good.

*

On his way home, Josh stops at a drug store and buys hair dye. He needs a change.

The person behind the counter doesn't look twice at the scarf covering his face.

*

He's bright, like the sun.

*

Tyler texts him often, which makes Josh jest at whether Tyler actually still has a job.

_slow day. no one needs me :(_

_Shut up_

_:)_

Josh goes to work and takes inventory. Always with the scarf around his lower face, Josh almost doesn't feel like a monster forced to its lonesome. He likes it back here. It's easier back here.

At home, Josh continues to spend an hour every night in front of the full-body mirror in his bedroom. The bed is unmade even now, blankets thrown aside at a diagonal, a corner dragging along the carpet. A pillow is on the floor. The headboard is cold. Josh sits on the floor and digests everything about his appearance. He can find solace in the fact he never has to shave his face ever again.

Used to be thick and constricting, the fog in his head is merely traces now. It falls through his fingers. He touches and feels the chill.

He visits his therapist every Thursday.

She tries her best when it comes to listening, but she isn't like Tyler. They exchange letters, Josh writing and her reading.

"I think we need to address the elephant in the room," she says, "before we can start the healing process."

Josh shrugs. He isn't wearing his scarf. She said she didn't mind looking at the damage.

"Josh," she starts, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, trying to connect with him. "What happened?"

Responding is automatic. If he wanted to tell the truth, he couldn't.

_Birds ate my face._

*

Tyler wants to take Josh out—for dinner, he clarifies—but he doesn't know exactly where would be safe.

_what are you comfortable with eating? and in public?_

Josh says Wendy's, and Tyler sends an _ok!_ in return.

Tyler picks Josh up and grins wide enough to crack his face in two. "Look at your hair! It's amazing, Josh! Can I touch it?"

But despite wielding all the confidence in the world, Josh becomes an abandoned puppy at the glances from children and insistent whispering behind the front counter.

Tyler notices. He pauses in his fry inspection. "Wanna switch seats with me?"

Josh shakes his head and points at the window.

"Wouldn't it be kinder if more people could share a fleeting moment rather than a full-blown study?"

"It would be kinder," Josh says, a kid turning around in their seat to look, "if they wouldn't stare."

Tyler drops the subject. In between his fingertips, a mush of fry rests, and he holds it to Josh's top lip, waiting for him to lower his tongue so he could place the fry on it.

And despite what seems like the entire world frowning upon him, Josh is happy. He takes the fry from Tyler and smiles. Tyler lightly pats Josh's hand, his fingers a little greasy. It's okay.

*

They spend time together when they can, mostly during the evenings and some nights. Almost always on the couch, it doesn't matter whose apartment they chose to hang out in, they're content.

Tyler leans against Josh when they're at Tyler's apartment, flipping through channels, and Tyler leans against Josh when they're at Josh's apartment, doing exactly the same. Watching TV, never doing anything more than that, even when the evenings fade into night and their eyelids droop more and more, they float to the bedroom and fall beneath the covers.

Every time they spend the night together, they fall asleep holding pillows and facing each other, Tyler with the blankets to his chin and Josh with them to his nose.

They don't touch.

Some nights, Tyler sits on Josh's bed during Josh's nightly one-hour ritual. Visible in the mirror, Josh's peripheral vision overwhelms him. Tyler's reflection is watching, always watching. An aura, it radiates from Tyler. Both peaceful and pensive, Tyler is here. He doesn't leave.

And he doesn't touch.

On those nights, Josh cries. Tyler asks if he wants a hug. At first, Josh shakes his head, and then as it continues, Josh gives in, gives up, and Tyler sits next to him and squeezes.

"Why are you crying?" Tyler and Josh's therapist are both soft when they ask Josh this.

"Birds ate my face," Josh tells her, but to Tyler, Josh is silent. He lets himself cry. Tyler doesn't tell him to stop.

"Self-love," his therapist says during one session, "can be hard to come by, especially when one is not honest with oneself."

Josh wants to stop crying. He thought he was past this.

*

He is past this.

*

He isn't.

*

On a walk, the last few days of winter in the air, Tyler's arm loops through Josh's. No heavy coat, no hat, Josh only wears an accessory because society obligates it.

"Do you, uh, think I could meet your parents soon? Properly, I mean. I've already met your mom." Tyler scratches the back of his head, his hair cropped short. "She wasn't very nice."

"Why do you want to meet my parents?"

"Isn't that a thing couples do?"

So, Josh texts his mom, wonders if he could bring a guest the next thing they have dinner together.

_Who?_

_His name's Tyler_

She doesn't make the connection straight away.

With a dinner consisting of a meal Josh can't eat, Tyler helping him is expected. If they were alone, just the two of them, Tyler would still take care when it comes to Josh's food. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, sitting with a leg tucked underneath him, Tyler picks apart pieces of chicken and smashes it between his fingers. Rolling it from his first knuckle to his second, Tyler checks the meat thrice before gently lifting it to Josh's mouth and carefully placing it on his tongue. For an added measure, Josh grinds the chicken into his teeth and swallows. It's good. Tyler smiles after each successful bite. If a bite fails, Tyler holds out his palm, not even caring to grab a napkin, and lets Josh flop down his tongue into his hand. The chicken rolls, and Tyler collects it on his own plate, a corner set aside for Josh's spittings. He wipes Josh's mouth then, smiling and smiling.

During this ordeal, Tyler doesn't eat. He waits until Josh is done. This arrangement isn't new to Josh. It isn't until the stares around the table reminds Josh this situation isn't as normal as he once thought.

Josh's mom takes Tyler's care as purely professional. She's grabbing a can of pop from the fridge and passing it to Josh when she makes this comment. "It's nice the hospital gave you a caregiver. Might as well help you out somehow."

She clarifies at Josh's narrowed stare. "Tyler, right? Hired by the hospital. Taking care of you. That's why he's with you, yeah?"

But Josh's eyes become slits from how hard he's glaring at his mom.

"He was _feeding_ you, Josh. And now you're mad at _me_ for assuming he's hired help."

Tyler's in the living room, preoccupied with a zombie game Jordan persuaded him into playing. He doesn't hear this.

After setting the soda on the counter, Josh grabs the whiteboard from the top half of the refrigerator. Hastily wiping away the reminder to call a repairman to look at the dishwasher, Josh uncaps the marker and writes, _BOYFRIEND_.

His mom actually laughs. She laughs, hand coming up to cover her mouth. "Wait, Josh, are you serious? Or are you assuming? Just because he feeds you doesn't mean he likes you."

They all saw Tyler looking at Josh. They all saw how bright his eyes got, how big his smile stretched. They all saw the sentiment.

Josh underlines _BOYFRIEND_.

"Josh, honey," she whispers, touching his arm. "I support you no matter what happens, but I'm just looking out for you. It doesn't seem like… a handsome boy like him would enter a relationship with someone who… wouldn't be able to satisfy him."

Josh circles _Y_.

"Unless he's a saint, I think intimacy would be—"

Josh stabs the board with the marker, right on the _Y_ , over and over. Why is intimacy required? Why can't Tyler just want to be with him because they like each other? Why wouldn't someone show interest in Josh? Why, why, why?

He's shaking his shoulders, head tilted down, and his mom's talking to him, overreacting, assuming wrongly again, assuming he's in trouble, but he's crying. For God's sake, he's _crying_.

Tyler scurries into the kitchen, Jordan following. Around the corner, entering the kitchen from another doorway is Josh's dad. He's confused. They're all confused. Tyler steps forward, pulling Josh from his mom and turning him to face front. "Look at me," Tyler says.

Josh drops the whiteboard and wraps his arms around Tyler's torso. Tyler's hands come to rest on the back of his head, to the space between his shoulder blades. "It's okay," Tyler coos, eyes drifting to the whiteboard. "I'm here. I'm here."

With Josh's sisters hovering in the back, they all see Tyler's fingers curling to massage the tension from Josh's shoulders. They all see Tyler's lips against the shell of Josh's ear, murmuring. They all see the sentiment.

They all see it.

*

In Tyler's car, they hold hands and have a silent argument over whose place they're going to spend the night.

Tyler's thumb comes around to rub Josh's knuckles. "I wouldn't listen to her, Josh. Relationships are complex. There are no set rules or standards. We make them up, the people involved in said relationship. We're okay, okay?" He's speaking in generalized terms, yet there are hints sprinkled throughout, as if he knows exactly what was exchanged in the kitchen.

"I, I… I wouldn't go as far as to suggest your mom doesn't know shit, but… your mom doesn't know shit." Tyler replaces his hand on the steering wheel. "In all seriousness, do you think they liked me?"

"Why don't you touch me?" Josh asks.

Tyler drums his fingers against the wheel. "Repeat."

Josh doesn't. He looks out the window. Their silent argument ends in them deciding Josh's apartment is the destination tonight.

Clothes still on, not bothering to even remove his coat or shoes, Josh is a ghost on his way to the bedroom. The carpet becomes his domain as he sinks to it, hands on his thighs, threatening to tip forward and bang his forehead repeatedly into the glass.

In the background, standing next to the bed, Tyler removes his jacket and toes off his shoes. He knows the routine. He's getting comfortable for the next hour.

Josh touches his reflection, palm turning horizontal to the ground to hide his mouth. The angle makes his wrist pop. Tyler raises his head at that.

Slowly, Josh fans out his fingers, hiding his face completely. Tyler says, "Josh."

Josh is quiet.

Tyler says, "Josh, come on. Get in the bed. It'll be better in the morning."

The words are rehearsed with care, used too many times. Josh rises at the buzzwords, sheds his coat to the floor, and steps from his boots. Instead of getting into bed, Josh goes into the bathroom. Door left open for Tyler to keep watch if needed, Josh pisses and goes on to brush his teeth. Tyler doesn't clean him up during this. Josh can do that. Josh does that.

Back in the bedroom, Josh crawls under the covers, the blankets already tossed back to invite him in; done by Tyler, Tyler hopes the illusion of bedtime will trick Josh's body.

But it doesn't.

"Take off your clothes," Tyler says. "Put on some sweatpants, at least. You can wear as many layers as you want. Just… please, Josh. Don't do this to me." Selfish, Tyler slides in close to Josh, his forehead to Josh's temple. "Don't shut down on me. You were doing so well."

"Why don't you touch me?" Josh asks, a low voice, hushed, spoken with no difficulty.

Tyler answers this time. Maybe he really didn't understand Josh in the car. "I am touching you." His breath against Josh's cheek, his lips along Josh's ear, Tyler wraps his arm around Josh's waist and pulls him close, chest to chest. "I'm touching you. I'm _touching you_."

" _Touch_ me," Josh says, and Tyler not hesitating to dip his hand beneath the blankets to cup Josh through the front of his jeans makes Josh flinch, twitch, whimper.

"Yeah," Tyler says, raising his head from Josh's own to look down at Josh. "You want me to touch you there?" Tyler squeezes.

Josh nods.

Tyler is quick with this, too, Josh scared the zipper on his pants might break. Quick and rough, Tyler wastes no time in spitting on his palm and sliding it down, grabbing Josh's cock, half-hard. He gives a pump of his hand. Josh closes his eyes. Tyler squeezes at the base, whispering, "Open your eyes. Keep your eyes on me. Good." Tyler smiles. "Such pretty eyes."

"You're one to talk," Josh mumbles.

"Be a good boy for me, okay?" Tyler moves his hand, up and down the length of Josh. "Keep your eyes open for me." More spit lands in Tyler's palm before he pushes under the covers again. "You like it when I touch you there? Do you want me to touch you here, or somewhere else?"

Josh blinks twice, three times. He fights to breathe. "Kiss me," he whispers, expecting a "repeat", expecting a denial, but Tyler kisses him. Tyler kisses him.

It's strange. Tyler puts his all into it, removing his hand from Josh's cock to cradle the side of his face. They keep still, trying to match their lips in a way that will be pleasant for the pair of them. With Josh missing his bottom lip, it's a little odd. Josh acts as if his tongue is his bottom lip and his tongue in one, swiping it along Tyler's top lip, bottom lip, keeping it steady as Tyler kisses it repeatedly.

At the end, they stare at each other and burst out laughing. "Okay," Tyler says, and returns his hand to Josh's dick. "That was… okay. I liked doing that. Anything else you want?"

Josh doesn't have to say it; Tyler's pressing the pads of his fingers against Josh's hole, rubbing in circles. Eyes fluttering shut, Tyler gets the message loud and clear. "Got it," he says. "I got you. I got you."

Desperate, too fucking desperate, Josh tosses the bottle of lube at Tyler and works on removing his clothes, but he's desperate, and Tyler is eager. On his stomach, held down by a hand on the small of his back, Josh grunts at the pressure of a finger sliding inside him. Tyler looms over him, capturing his tongue in another kiss. Words aren't needed. Tyler works in a second finger, still kissing Josh. He can't stop kissing Josh, especially when Josh begins to cry.

"I'm here," Tyler tells him, and doesn't stop moving his wrist. "I'm here. I'm here."

Too desperate, too eager, Josh struggles to pull off the rest of his clothing as Tyler spreads lube along his cock. Shirt tossed behind him, Josh only has on his socks now, which Tyler doesn't seem to mind. They're long, white, blue and red stripes around the hem, and warm. Josh curls his toes, and Tyler edges forward. He grabs a pillow and stuffs it underneath Josh's hips. Elevation is good.

"Are you okay?" Tyler inches Josh's legs apart. "If you don't want to talk, you don't have to talk. You can, like… If I do something bad, tug on my ear. If I do something good, you know what to do."

Josh gives a thumbs up. He wraps his arms around the backs of his thighs, wiggling his hips as he slowly, slowly raises his legs into the air. Presenting himself to Tyler, Tyler takes him, hands to his calf muscles. A tight squeeze at first, Tyler doesn't move until Josh deems it okay.

"How long has it been since you've last…?" He doesn't finish, but Josh knows the intended ending.

"Before my accident, it was… a few days before my accident. Some girl had this toy inside me… and it was good." Josh tries reaching for Tyler's hand. Tyler sets his hand at a lower level, on Josh's thigh. Josh can touch him now. "You?" He drags his other hand down his leg, stopping at the curve of his ass. His fingers slide closer, inward, and he strokes where Tyler and he become one.

Tyler rocks into Josh. "Years."

Josh turns his head, cheek to the sheets. Their reflections are welcome to all. From this distance, Josh can't tell he's disfigured. He doesn't know if he likes that.

"Fuck me," Josh says. "Don't hold back."

Tyler listens.

*

Tyler can't stop kissing Josh. "Sleep," he told Josh, but he's holding the side of Josh's neck, lips parted—have to be parted—and sucking, licking, lightly nibbling.

"Can't get enough of you." Tyler runs his fingers through Josh's hair. Still yellow, Tyler plays with the curls and kisses. Up Josh's nose, across Josh's forehead, on each cheek, Tyler can't stop. He can't stop. Josh doesn't want him to stop.

"Thank you, Tyler," he says, tugging on the blanket until it's up to where his chin would be if he had one.

"Again," Tyler whispers.

"Tyler."

"Again."

"Tyler, Tyler."

Tyler closes his eyes. Hardly a whisper, just a mouthing, "Again."

Josh wraps both arms around Tyler's chest. "Tyler."

"Tell me something funny. A good-night story."

It isn't humorous. Nobody laughs. Josh barely cracks a smile. "Birds ate my face."

*

It's early, too early, for Tyler to be leaving Josh's bed. The sun isn't out yet, won't be up for hours. Tyler's leaving, though, sliding from the blankets and ducking into the bathroom. A one-night stand wouldn't use the bathroom; they would grab their clothes and hurry out of the room, dressing on the way. Josh has been on both sides of that arrangement. What Tyler is doing isn't that. Something's happened.

Tyler exits the bathroom, looking a little more awake than he did a minute ago. At Josh's staring, Tyler sheepishly smiles and gets on the bed, leaning over Josh to capture his top lip between his own. Josh holds the sides of Tyler's head, pulling him in close. Tyler's cheeks are a little damp from stray water droplets.

"Got called in for work," Tyler explains. "I'd gladly wake up next to you at a more appropriate hour if it wasn't for that."

Josh licks Tyler's bottom lip.

Tyler smiles, kisses Josh's tongue. "Text me if you need anything, yeah? Okay?"

"Okay."

Tyler dresses swiftly and bounds from the room, giving Josh a wave on his way out.

It's when the front door closes that Josh realizes how much he's missed being in love with someone.

*

The fog continues residence.

Before going to work, Josh stands in front of his mirror. He left the bed a disheveled mess, the pillow with a suspicious stain kicked to the floor.

Josh is in light layers. Spring is upon them, and the scarf around his face will be out of place soon. What will he wear then? No one bats an eye now, but when the sun is high in the sky and he wears sleeveless shirts, what will they think of the heavy scarf hiding his mouth? Would Josh need to step it up and purchase lighter scarves he often sees young women wear? Josh admits he does like the patterns on them, but what would strangers think? Would they laugh at him?

Would they even care?

If it were up to him, Josh wouldn't wear a scarf. He'd go out in public with his tongue hanging limply by his neck, a big stupid grin on his face as he spends time with Tyler. Of course Tyler would let him ditch the scarf. Tyler supports him.

But for now, Josh keeps the scarf on his face. It's itchy.

*

Josh works late. Tyler gets off before Josh, and he crashes at Josh's work, in the break room. Curled up in a chair, legs to his chest and his head tilted back on the arm, Jack makes a comment on how Tyler looks like a cat.

"Is he okay?"

Pale, dark circles prevalent, jacket zipped up all the way to his chin, Tyler shouldn't be comfortable, but he is.

Josh nods. Tyler's okay.

At the end of his shift, Josh lightly shakes Tyler awake. Tyler protests weakly, fingers twitching along his thighs as he stretches. The chair makes its own form of protest by squeaking. There are couches nearby. Tyler zoned in on the chair and nested. He complains of a neck cramp.

"Massage it for me?"

"Home," Josh says, a little muffled. Tyler hears, and he starts toward his car.

They drive separately to Josh's place. It doesn't stop them from molding into one once Josh falls into bed. Tyler crawls on top of him, his last shoe dropping to the carpet as he sets his head on Josh's chest, the sore side up to the ceiling. As requested and approved, Josh places his palm on the muscle and gently rolls his fingertips into it. Tyler faintly smiles. He's asleep in minutes.

Josh watches them in the mirror. He watches his tongue press to the roof of his mouth and slowly fall to his neck. Josh is happy.

*

Mostly.

*

His therapist drills him every session to open up a little more than the last.

"You'll feel better, Josh. I know you will. You're so strong, but there's something holding you back. I can tell. Do you want to talk about it?"

Josh turns the pen in his hands, doesn't write.

She says, "Remember what I told you about self-love?"

"Yes."

She understands that. "Have you been honest with yourself?"

Josh doesn't answer. His shoulders slump. It's a good enough indicator to pick this up next week. They're getting somewhere.

"Here," she says, catching Josh with his hand on the door. "I thought this would be more suitable for spring."

A white plastic bag held toward him, Josh carefully takes it and looks inside. He sees pastel blues, pinks, greens. He sees Easter, and he smiles. "You didn't—"

"Nonsense," she says. "Do you like them?"

Josh switches out the winter scarf for a lighter one, airy, blue to go with his hair. The fabric is thin. The sun can warm him throughout.

"Yes," he says, and doesn't mind the peeks from strangers behind sunglasses or phones or hands. He feels good.

*

It's early Monday morning when the police call Josh.

"Would you mind coming down to the station this afternoon, so we can discuss your case?"

"Okay."

A pause. "Was that a 'yes'?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry; we should have texted you, or called your parents."

"It's okay."

Another pause. "We'll see you this afternoon."

Mother and father up front, Josh in the backseat, they drive to the station. Tension able to be cut with a knife, his mom wrings her hands around the steering wheel and says not a word. Her posture is stiff, while his dad is much more relaxed. They are on different wavelengths. Josh is in the middle, somewhere, not here.

Mother on the left and father on the right, Josh sits across from an officer, the woman who helped him drink a milkshake, and listens to his mom cry.

"What are you talking about?" she's asking, clutching Josh's hand as if she's consoling him. "What do you mean you're closing the investigation?"

"We don't have any substantial evidence to suggest someone attempted to murder your son."

Speaking as if he weren't in the room, his mom continues this, "He's hideously disfigured from a _gunshot_ to the _face_. And you're going to sit there and tell us you've given up."

"There isn't—"

"Look at him," she says, sharp. Josh closes his eyes. "Someone did this to my baby boy, and I want to know who. If you won't, I'll hire a private investigator, and they—"

Josh's dad opens his mouth to interrupt her, but Josh reaches her first. He turns their hands around, him holding hers now. "Mom," he tries, voice shaking from behind his scarf. "Don't."

The officer attempts to explain. "We've combed over everything, Mrs. Dun. As we told Josh before, the gun at the scene couldn't be traced to any previous owner. Except for the bystander who found him minutes later, he was alone when this event occurred. There were no witnesses. We have no suspects. We've done all we can. We're sorry."

His mom wails. His dad's head tilts toward the ceiling. Josh rubs his thumb into his mom's wrist and closes his eyes.

"We're sorry."

*

"It isn't your fault," the officer told him in the hospital, trying to be his friend with elbows and a cheeky smile.

"This isn't your fault," he told Josh.

"Just an unfortunate accident."

*

_Birds ate my face._

*

That night, Josh fucks Tyler.

Tyler's on his stomach, forehead on a pillow as his back arches into Josh, hips moving at their own accord as he fucks himself on Josh's cock. Grunting, soft, high, Tyler laces his fingers with Josh's and holds with white knuckles. "Oh, _shit._ "

Josh can fuck. He can go all night. He presses into the swell of Tyler's ass and rocks, his teeth in Tyler's shoulder, his tongue on Tyler's shoulder blade. Breathy and obnoxious, Josh is out of place and right where he needs to be. Tyler's going through full-body shivers.

"I'm close. I'm so close." Tyler wipes his mouth on his bicep and smacks his bottom into Josh's groin, giving a shake of his hips with each steady forward and backward motion. " _J-Josh_."

Despite how far gone Tyler is, Josh comes first, deep, inside Tyler, and Tyler makes a mess of the bed sheets. Together, they collapse, skin sticky, hair tacky. With semen between his legs, Tyler wraps his arm around Josh's shoulders and pulls him in close. He kisses Josh's tongue, mouth opening to slide the width of his tongue over Josh's own. The corners of his lips turn up into a smile, laughing, chest heaving to catch his breath.

"Tyler, I have to tell you something."

Tyler kisses Josh's nose. "Gotta tell you something, too, babe." A secret, he's whispering a secret Josh actually wants to know.

"I love you," Tyler says, ruffling his fingers through Josh's hair. "I love you, Josh."

Josh kisses Tyler, clumsy if Tyler's not the one initiating. Tyler's into it. He's always into it.

"What were you gonna tell me?" Tyler stands, walking into the bathroom to clean the mess dripping down his thighs.

"That," Josh says, and repeats it once Tyler gets into bed. "I love you."

Tyler kisses his forehead. "Sick."

*

Josh watches Tyler sleep. A fetus, the top of his head the only part of him visible, Tyler doesn't hear Josh getting up from the bed. He doesn't hear Josh grabbing his clothes and tugging them over his head, onto his legs. He doesn't hear Josh wipe his face and wind a scarf around his mouth, and he doesn't hear Josh running to his car and screaming at the top of his lungs. Even if Tyler did hear, he wouldn't understand. Josh never screamed when Tyler was near. Tyler can interpret his whispers, but Tyler can never interpret his bellows.

*

Tyler texts Josh in the morning. Josh ignores Tyler and goes to work.

Tyler calls Josh on Josh's break. Josh ignores Tyler and goes back to work.

Tyler calls Josh again when Josh comes home. Josh ignores Tyler and goes to bed.

Tyler texts, Tyler calls, and Josh ignores.

*

The fog is in cahoots with the birds.

*

White scarf on his face, no sleeves on his arms, Josh sits next to Jack outside. Behind the building, Josh and Jack take turns looking down at their phones and looking up at the sky. As of right now, Josh is on the sky, and Jack is on his phone. From the corner of his eye, Josh sees the colors typical of Instagram. He presses his hands together.

"Dude," Jack says, "call him back."

Josh doesn't deign that with a response. Instead, he stretches his legs out in front of him and closes his eyes.

"What do you even do? Too busy to text him back?" Jack repeats, "What have you done?" He stares at Josh then, and Josh opens an eye. "You redyed your hair. Okay, that takes… like, an hour. What's your excuse for the other—what—hundred sixty-seven?"

Josh closes his eye.

"Not even gonna tell me what happened? Had a fight?"

Josh shakes his head.

"Right. Getting closer. Did you two… decide to see other people?"

Josh shakes his head.

"Cool. It's on the tip of my tongue." Jack taps his chin. Slowly, his eyes widen, and he gasps. "Did someone drop the _L-bomb_?"

Josh doesn't move.

Jack laughs. "Holy shit. It was him, wasn't it? You're not ready. Wait. He isn't ready. You're scared."

He's still theorizing. Josh pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a text to Jack—something to shut him up.

It doesn't work.

_We both said it. It's mutual. Just not what I wanted to tell him at the moment_

"What does that even mean?" Jack's laughing again, bewildered. "Did he know that wasn't what you wanted to tell him?"

_No and it's killing me_

"What can't you tell him?" Jack is softer, pulling a leg to his chest to hug. He's trying to put himself in Josh's shoes, but Jack is at a loss. So, he narrows it down next, continuing to tap his chin, more absently now, not anything demeaning. Jack frowns. Josh wonders if he understands.

He's on his way. "Josh, you can tell me. It can't be that bad."

Josh fiddles with his phone. _The police closed my case. Stopped investigating. They said there's no evidence to convict someone of trying to kill me._

"But the gun. They found a gun."

_They can't trace it back to its owner. No fingerprints._

"Fuck." Jack shakes his head, disappointment. "He, like, kinda found you, didn't he? He was in the ambulance." At Josh's nodding, Jack says, "So, are you worried how he'll respond to this? Since he's pretty much been here since the beginning?"

Josh shrugs a shoulder.

Jack frowns more. "That's not all, is it?"

Josh hastily wipes an eye. Regardless, Jack sees, and he scoots closer to Josh, thigh to thigh. Again, reiterating, "You can tell me, Josh."

Absolute understanding is needed. Josh texts, and Jack reads, and Jack hugs Josh, both arms, Josh collapsing into his chest. The waterworks start, and once the plug is pulled, it can't be replaced. Josh holds onto Jack's t-shirt, shoulders shivering, getting tears on the pair of them. Jack rocks him, and Josh follows the motion easily. It's gentle, soothing. It puts the terrors inside of Josh to rest.

A warm hand on the small of Josh's back, Jack asks to see Josh's face. With his own warm hands, sweaty, shaking, Josh pulls the scarf to his neck and lets it rest in a bundle.

"It's not really that bad," Jack realizes, holding up his hands as if ready to take Josh's head in them. "You still have your top lip. Your teeth still look good. You're just missing… the bottom half." Tilting from side to side, Jack gets in close to peek at Josh's tongue. Josh moves it experimentally for him, and Jack fucking cracks up. "Dude, this is great. You're badass. I'm sorry for ever being a wimp around you before. It's a lot to get used to, but… it's totally cool."

Josh smiles.

Jack laughs again. "That's so awesome. Wanna take a selfie?"

Josh gestures to his face and raises his eyebrow.

"Come on, filters and hashtags exist. I can pretend I'm practicing my special effects makeup for Halloween." Jack swipes his thumb across his phone screen. Josh slides in closer.

It doesn't get removed. Josh thinks he might do cartwheels.

At the end of their break, Josh pulls the scarf back up to his nose. Jack looks a little sad, but he quickly remembers that despite Josh working in the back room, it's still considerate of him to hide from potential stray eyes.

Jack asks him, "Are you happy? Like, you didn't want surgery to fix that. So, are you happy?"

Josh says, "I'm getting there."

And Jack _understands him_. "Yep, one day at a time."

*

"Text me if you ever need to talk, okay, Josh?" Jack points his finger at Josh, trying to be stern, but his eyes are teasing. He's trying to be lighthearted at a time like this. It works. "And talk to Tyler. He'll… he'll appreciate it."

*

Another week passes. Tyler eventually stops trying to get in contact with Josh.

If Jack asks, Josh lies. Jack knows he's lying. Jack lets Josh lie.

Josh sees his therapist on Thursday. He sits with his scarf in his lap to keep himself from picking at his cuticles. She writes down something without raising her head.

"How have you been? You cancelled our session last week. I was worried."

He writes to her. She replies, "And how do you feel about that? Angry? Relieved?"

He stares blankly.

"Angry because you think they've given up on you? Or relieved because it's over?"

"I'unno."

She nods and writes. "Have you thought about our discussion on self-love since we last sat down together?"

Josh nods.

She's surprised. "Is there something you wish to tell me, Josh?"

He writes it for her, and she reads, and she says, "Don't you feel better?"

He sticks his hands in his scarf.

"I think your parents need to know. Apart from yourself, your family was the most affected by this situation. They need to know."

And, quietly, she adds, "Tyler, too. Have you talked to him?"

Josh writes, _No, I'm scared_.

She says, "Why? Tyler was one of my patients. He wouldn't—"

"I know it's stupid. I'm stupid. I'm—I—" Josh cries. He cries and uses his scarf to dry his eyes.

"It's okay to cry, Josh. It's okay to hurt. You've hurt for so long, and now you can begin to heal," she says.

"This is good," she says.

"I'll see you next week," she says.

*

He doesn't tell his parents. He goes home and stares at his reflection. This time, he isn't sitting in front of the mirror, isn't standing; Josh is on his bed. Josh is on his bed, and he can't tell how blotchy his skin gets from how hard he cries.

*

The fog is thick, but Josh can see a hint of sanctuary.

*

Tyler gives no warning. He pounds on the front door of Josh's apartment, hard, with the side of his hand, fingers curled into a fist. The force is frightening, shaking the doorframe and the walls connected to it. Rapid and demanding, Tyler's voice enters the equation to let Josh know he isn't about to get robbed.

"Josh, dammit, I know you're here. Your car's out front. There's a lamp on. _Josh_." Tyler hits more, his palms flat as he smacks. "If you don't open up, I'm gonna call for an ambulance, and _Jesus Christ_ , please don't tell me you're dead."

Friday night, still sore from his therapy session the day before, Josh is hesitant to answer the door. He wanted to do this in his own time, but time is at the door, and he wants inside.

Friday night, Josh was in the kitchen, sat atop a counter and eating a jar of baby food when Tyler appears. "Josh," Tyler chants, sure to attract the attention of neighbors. "Josh, Josh, _Josh_." He's texting Josh's phone, blowing it up. Josh slides off the counter and goes toward the living room, toward the front door. It sounds as if Tyler is jumping, as if he's having a temper tantrum. " _Fuck_ , Josh."

Josh opens the door, and Tyler is there, indeed looking as if he were having a temper tantrum. Pink face, unshed tears, lips bitten to a bloody pulp, Tyler's fists are raised, ready to pound, pound, pound into the door. Josh is here, though, so Tyler drops his arms. "Josh," he says, and he's broken. He's so broken. Bags under his eyes, wearing his uniform, Tyler has scruff, and now tears, on his cheeks. "A-are you okay?"

Josh nods, despite not meaning it.

Tyler stares at the jar in Josh's hand, the spoon in it—juxtaposition. "What's that, sweet potatoes?"

Josh nods again. He takes a cautious step back, and Tyler lets himself inside.

They go back to the kitchen, Josh on the counter and Tyler standing in front of him. A little awkward and out of place, Tyler crosses his arms over his chest and looks at his feet. Josh looks at Tyler's feet with him.

"So," Tyler says.

Josh scrapes out the last bits of sweet potato and holds the spoon for Tyler. Tyler furrows his brow. "Want me to feed you?"

"No."

Tyler leans forward, taking the spoon in his mouth. He slowly pulls off, tongue swiping over his lips to make sure he catches it all before swallowing. He grimaces a little. Josh smiles. "That's… not what I remember sweet potatoes tasting like."

"Yeah. It's… for babies."

"Yeah, _babies_." Tyler sucks his cheek into his mouth and grinds his teeth into it. Josh hops off the counter to drop the jar into the trash and grab another from a cabinet. Stacks of baby food jars stare at him, all with that trademark baby face on it. Josh moves them aside until he finds another jar of sweet potatoes.

"Do you get a lot of stares?" Tyler asks, cautious, sliding backwards to allow Josh space to get on the counter. "Like, do they assume you're a single dad when you go shopping?"

Josh never considered that a viable option. He thought the scarf around his mouth was an alibi.

He shrugs and twists off the lid. Tyler nods. "Okay."

A beat of silence. Josh says, "Are you on call?"

Tyler nods again. "Yeah, just… Brendon dropped me off. He's getting us… food." Tyler frowns, almost guilty for having uttered the word. Josh shoves more sweet potatoes into his mouth to keep his stomach satisfied.

"You weren't texting me back. Didn't call. Didn't come around to fuck me anymore." Tyler means it as a joke, but no laughter follows. "What the hell happened, Josh? You left in the middle of the night, after a _nice_ night. At least, like, I thought it was a nice night." Tyler bites into his bottom lip some more, sending up blood he either doesn't notice or care. "Did I say something? Do something? Did—shit, Josh—you could have told me you were getting bad." Tyler's eyes fall to Josh's arm, but they come up to rest on Josh's face more confused than ever. "Did… did something happen with the investigation? Did the police contact you? Do they have a suspect?"

Bingo. Josh turns his spoon in the sweet potatoes, a slow circle. "They closed my case."

Tyler doesn't say anything for such a long time Josh fears he might need to repeat himself. "Wait, what? They closed your case? Can they just do that? They haven't… Do they… know who did this to you?"

"They don't know."

Tyler's hands go in his hair. He's about to fall over. "And they just _closed your case_. Shouldn't they go harder? Try to find who did this to you? Jesus, how did your mom take it?"

"Not good."

"Is she doing more? Is she getting a private detective?"

"Fuck, Tyler, stop. Nobody needs to do that."

"Yeah, we do! Josh, someone _shot_ you in the _fucking face_. We need to bring you justice."

Tyler hasn't slept well in days. Josh watches his eye twitch before he scrubs his hands over them.

"I know who shot me," Josh admits, and crams the rest of the baby food into his mouth.

Tyler tosses his hands into the air. "Did you tell the police? Did you tell your parents?"

Josh is quiet.

A skewed laugh tumbles from Tyler's lips. "You knew all along, and you fucking… Were you protecting them? Didn't want to see them in jail? Who was it? An ex? Someone you cared about, that's for sure."

"Me."

The world stops revolving on that word.

Tyler is a piece of mauled copper with a red patina. "What?" It's not a question at this point. It's harsh and mean, and Tyler looks like he might spit fire. "What the _fuck_ —?"

"'You should not be alive right now.' Those were the first words you said to me, that I can remember. 'You shouldn't be alive right now.' And I _shouldn't_. I didn't want to be alive."

"Josh, what—?"

"But I am, and I have to live with the consequences. Right? You told me that, too. I have to live with this decision. I have to own it. I did this to myself, and I need to own up to it."

Tyler's hand covers his mouth. Josh can see his lips are trembling, though, from the quick spasms of his cheeks. He's crying, eyes threatening to close and let them overpower him, but he keeps them open. He keeps them on Josh.

"Tyler," Josh says, voice the steadiest it's been. "I tried to kill myself with a gunshot to the face. I don't know what went wrong, but it went wrong. And now I'm owning up to it."

Eyes closing now, both of Tyler's hands come up to shield his senses. Josh is curious as to why Tyler's crying so forcefully, but then Josh remembers Tyler had thought something bad happened to him, that Tyler thought he might need to call for an ambulance. He thought Josh was already dead. But now he knows. He knows, and the emotions that built inside him are flooding. Tyler's wobbling forward, one foot sliding at a time, and Josh braces himself, empty jar of baby food and spoon off to the side as he opens his arms and wraps them around Tyler's body. His legs join, too, and he cradles Tyler.

Tyler cries.

Josh presses his cheek to the top of Tyler's head.

There are no words.

*

Brendon calls Tyler, interrupting the session on the sofa. Josh whisked them there when Tyler's body grew heavy and his only verbal responses came in the form of grunts. Josh was in a ball, Tyler between his legs, face in his chest, when Tyler's phone rings. Tyler stirs and answers, "What?" He's tired. Josh wants him to go back to sleep.

"Yeah, still at Josh's. He's okay. Did you get some food?"

Tyler pushes himself into sitting on his knees. Hair cut short, the topmost brown strands are pushed up on one side. Somehow the bags under his eyes have gotten worse. "Dude, yeah, I'm hungry. Just had a bite of sweet potatoes, and they did nothing for me. Hurry." Tyler pockets his phone. "Brendon's coming over. He has pizza." Tyler swings his legs over the edge of the couch and immediately drops his head into his hands. "Would that be okay? Can you eat that?"

Josh moves to sit next to Tyler.

"Or a blender? I'unno how a pizza smoothie would taste."

He takes one of Tyler's arms, running his fingers down to tangle with Tyler's. His nails are picked at and bitten, much like his lips. Anxious ticks, they have that in common.

"Not hungry," Josh says, and leans forward. He kisses Tyler's cheek.

Tyler's breath is shaky. "Don't hide from me. Don't you fucking dare."

Josh lowers his gaze. He squeezes Tyler's hand.

"Lying by omission," Tyler says, "is still lying." The smile attaching to his face is uncharacteristically bright for the current mood. "Josh, you're so clever. Stubborn. ' _Someone_ shot me.' Someone _did_ shoot you. Of course you said you didn't think you had any enemies or ugly remnants of breakups who would do this to you because you _don't_. You don't know. No one can know for sure until it happens."

Tyler raises his hand, Josh still tangled with him, and presses his lips to Josh's knuckles. Tyler closes his eyes. "You fucked with people. I did, too, if we're going to be honest now. When I tried to kill myself, I told everyone ghosts made me do it. ' _Ghosts slit my wrists_.' Everyone thought I was losing it. The doctor prescribed me antipsychotics. At that part of my life, I was ready to self-destruct. I lived with my parents after that, out of my mind on drugs I didn't need. I was never the same after that."

"Do you still take them?" Josh wiggles his fingers against Tyler's lips.

Tyler kisses each of them. "No. After two weeks, the doctor pulled me back into their office to tell me I actually wasn't crazy; some experts found some paranormal activity in the apartment I was living in at the time. They told me to find a new place, and I should be okay. And I was." He's smiling more. "Happy accidents."

Turning his head now, pressing his cheek to the back of Josh's hand, Tyler asks, "Why birds?"

" _The Birds_."

Tyler rolls his eyes. "Of course."

"Who found you?" Josh keeps his hand steady. "When you attempted, did you call the ambulance yourself, or did a neighbor find you?"

"Called them myself." Tyler looks ahead, transfixed on something. "The paramedics were easy with me. They acted like they cared." He looks at Josh. "I got out of an inpatient program, enrolled in the closest school, and decided I wanted to be like them."

Brendon arrives with the pizza. He's happy to see Josh, giving him a one-armed hug when he opens the door. "Hey, man."

"Hey."

With Brendon in the chair with his legs kicked up and possession of the TV remote, Tyler and Josh keep to the couch. Tyler helps Josh eat a slice, no matter Josh's insistence he isn't hungry.

"For me," Tyler whispers, "please try."

Making sure Brendon isn't watching, Tyler chews a small piece of bread, sauce, and cheese, and silently spits it onto the pads of his fingers. Then, gingerly, Tyler places the mush on Josh's tongue. Light in his eyes, contrasting the black underneath them, he watches with delight as Josh successfully eats pizza for the first time since he lost his jaw.

"I'm so proud of you," Tyler says, using a brown stiff napkin to wipe his fingertips before taking Josh's head between his hands. He kisses Josh, first his top lip, and then his tongue.

From the chair, Brendon says, "That is singlehandedly the most fucked up and most romantic thing I've seen in my life."

According to Brendon, Tyler is strange. According to Josh's mom, Tyler is a saint.

And according to Josh, Tyler is Tyler.

*

Before his next therapy appointment on Thursday, Josh goes to his parents' house with all the intention in the world of telling them the truth.

Tyler texts him, _good luck babe_ , that afternoon, and Josh lets that wish fill him completely.

It's like his parents know he's about to tell them something important. His siblings are hovering around the kitchen table, eager to learn with them. It might as well be the cure for cancer.

The whiteboard from the fridge in his arms, a new marker in his hand, Josh erases a local lawyer's number and tells them the truth.

No jokes, Josh writes, _I know who shot me._

Almost ready to toss herself across the table, his mom's eyes well with tears. "Who?"

No fucking birds, Josh writes, _I shot myself in the face._

His mom is inconsolable, and so is his dad. Ashley takes over, Jordan and Abby watching in the back. "Have you gotten help, Josh?"

He nods and writes, _I'm in therapy now._

Rightfully so, his mother is angry. "You know what? I'm glad you didn't get plastic surgery. You should live with your face looking like that as a reminder of your stupid and selfish mistake."

Josh smiles. She doesn't expect that. "I'm glad I didn't either."

As she's crying, Jordan butts into the conversation, asking Josh if he wants to play this new RPG he bought. "There're dragons."

Josh accepts, and his sisters follow. They get into the game, too. They're all happy, no awkwardness. They don't treat Josh like he's broken. He's normal. He's their big brother.

Two hours later, he means to leave his parents' house. He tells them goodbye because they're in their bedroom, to themselves, in the dark, and his dad says, "Bye," while his mom is quiet. Josh realizes he doesn't give a shit.

That night, Josh stays the night with Tyler. They turn in early, Tyler still so tired.

"Hope you didn't drive today," Josh says, and Tyler presses in close to Josh, laughing, his head in Josh's armpit.

"Took naps whenever I could."

"I'm here," Josh says, easily comprehensible. Practice makes perfect. "You don't have to lose sleep over me."

"Yeah, well…" Tyler's thought dissipates into snoring. Josh joins him. They sleep for eleven hours.

*

The fog parts in two. Tyler is Moses.

*

"I told my friend. I told you. I told my family. And I told Tyler."

She hasn't stopped smiling since Josh sat down at the top of the hour. "How are you feeling today?"

Josh is giddy. He smiles and smiles. "I'm fantastic. I feel… I feel really good."

"Do you still need to see me?"

"Maybe not every week."

"Every other week? Every month?"

Josh shrugs, drumming his fingers on his thighs. "Every two weeks," he suggests, and she makes note of it.

"I'll see you in two weeks, Josh."

Josh walks home. The sun's hot. He doesn't wear a scarf. People stare. Josh doesn't care.

He doesn't care.

*

On an evening with more rain than what the weather called for, Josh digs his toes into Tyler's thigh and says, "I want to try something."

Preoccupied with a commercial about a vest for dogs to curb anxiety, Tyler reaches down to wrap his fingers around Josh's ankle, says, "What?"

Josh wiggles his toes. "Can I try to suck your dick?"

Tyler turns his head to look at Josh. Whether it's because the commercial ended or due to Josh's request, Josh can't be for certain. Tyler's staring at him, though, brown eyes, dark eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah. I haven't, like… I wanted to try. If that's okay," he adds, just in case.

He was a fool to think Tyler would disagree. "So, wanna do it here or in bed?"

"In here, maybe." Josh eases himself from the couch, settling between Tyler's legs. A lazy day, Tyler wears a pair of basketball shorts and knee-high socks. Tyler tilts his feet onto their sides, spreading his legs and pressing the arches of his feet into Josh's hips, drawing him in closer, inviting him, letting him know that this is okay.

"Take your time," Tyler says, eyes drifting to the TV. There's another commercial about animals playing—this one's for cat treats.

Josh raises onto his knees and slips his fingers into the waistband of Tyler's pants. "Kiss me first?"

Tyler does, sloppy, because he goes straight for Josh's tongue. He's laughing by the end, scratching the base of Josh's skull. "Don't stress too much."

"Okay." Josh continues pulling down Tyler's clothes, letting them rest around his thighs. Tyler wraps his arm around his stomach, keeping his t-shirt out of the way while Josh begins working. It takes a minute for this to happen. Tyler's erection is non-existent. Soft curls hug his flaccid cock, matted from his shower an hour ago. If Tyler's embarrassed, he doesn't let it show. He takes his cock in hand, holding it in place, his thumb dragging along the side to coax the catalyst.

"Take your time." Tyler isn't bothered. He holds his dick, settles against the back of the sofa, and watches TV.

This isn't the first time, nor will it be the last time Josh will suck a dick, but this time feels like it's his first time all over again. He's had to relearn everything having to do with his mouth—talking, eating, kissing, sucking. Talking's getting better; Tyler hardly needs Josh to repeat himself. Eating is sometimes okay. Josh can't eat solid foods. And kissing? That will always be awkward for him, no matter what Tyler does to make it hot. Josh always loved kissing. Nobody can take that away from him.

So, Josh needs to perfect _this_ now.

Tyler's still watching TV.

Josh licks the tip of Tyler's cock, watching Tyler's face change. Tyler's eyes flutter shut, his toes curl around Josh's hips, and his dick twitches. "Shit," Tyler hisses, and Josh licks again, right on the glans, right where he likes it.

Tyler's shivering, unable to keep his eyes open. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah? Wanna try to put it in your mouth? Take it down your throat?"

Josh licks the head again.

"It's okay if you can't."

Josh tries. He pushes Tyler's hand away to hold his dick by the base, his pubes a gentle cushion for Josh's fist. Carefully, Josh tries and tries, relaxing the best he can as Tyler's dick inches further in his mouth. It hits his throat. Josh swallows. Tyler runs his fingers through Josh's hair, ruffling it. "Yeah. Yeah, you got it, babe."

Drooling everywhere, eyes wet, Josh pulls off Tyler's cock and sniffles. "I, Tyler, I—"

"It's okay."

"Thank you."

Tyler absently pets Josh's head, fingertips lightly massaging his scalp.

Josh tries again, but like their kisses, it gets sloppy. Tyler enjoys their kissing, and he enjoys this. Up and down, his tongue flicking the underside of Tyler's dick, Josh grows more confident by the minute. Tyler's sensitive, especially when Josh passes his tongue over his glans. Josh does it more often. He can do that. If he can't swallow around Tyler as often as he'd like, then Josh can make Tyler into a trembling mess. Over and over, Josh traces the head of Tyler's cock with his tongue. Erratic and high-pitched, Tyler whimpers, toes a vise. "Oh, Joshie, right there. K-k-keep doing _that_." Tyler squeaks. " _Fuck_."

He's crying. He comes on Josh's face, and he's crying.

"Yeah," he says, and the word is music to Josh's ears. "It's, like"—Tyler waves his hand, spent, trying to catch his breath—"you've eaten out a cunt before, right? It's, like, y'know, going straight for the clit. It's intense. Never felt anything like that."

Josh cleans himself off the best he can, swiping his tongue over his lip and his septum. Tyler helps him with the rest, quietly apologizing.

"No, you taste good."

Tyler laughs. "Well, thank you."

Redressing, they sit on the couch and watch TV. Tyler asks Josh if he wants reciprocation, but Josh says, "Later," and Tyler doesn't pester him on the matter any further.

"Hey," Tyler says, after lightning flashes and thunder rolls. "I don't think we've taken a picture together."

"If you post it anywhere, you gotta say you've been practicing your special effects makeup."

"Hell." Tyler finds his phone, wraps his arm around Josh's shoulders, and snaps the picture. The dark doesn't matter; the light from the TV is enough to showcase bright grins, crinkly eyes, and dimples.

Tyler sets the picture as his background. He stares at it for an indecipherable amount of time, having to unlock his phone to stare more, to smile more, to love more.

The time of day doesn't matter. Sometimes Josh will wake up in the middle of the night, and between dreams, he'd turn over in bed and catch Tyler on his phone, studying that picture and not at all worried about the little red notification buttons connected to many apps. He'll ask Tyler what he's doing, and Tyler will lean his head on whatever part of Josh's body is nearby and say, "I love you," and Josh appreciates the sentiment, but he's tired, and his "I love you" is a grunt that Tyler can interpret with no trouble.

Sometimes Tyler stares at his background in public. Josh notices he's doing this when they're in the line at the grocery store. Arms full of baby food jars, a scarf on his face, Josh says, "Put that away, loser," and Tyler's smile is faint as he puts his phone in his back pocket.

Sometimes Tyler shows Josh his background while they're doing mundane things. Josh is fixing the bed for the night, and Tyler is stretching out his arm, phone in hand, background lit.

Underneath the covers, Tyler would show Josh again, and Josh would kiss Tyler's forehead and tell him to go to sleep.

"I've been thinking," Tyler says, nervous. His phone chimes at the charger's appearance. "I've been thinking about something."

Josh shoves an arm under his pillow, body tilted toward Tyler. "Thinking about what?"

Tyler settles on his stomach. The blankets come up to his chin. "Would you wear a veil over your face at your wedding?"

Birds take flight in his chest. Josh says, "Guess you'll have to find out," and holds Tyler's hand.

**Author's Note:**

> [seb](http://floral-atbest.tumblr.com/) did a little [pencil doodle](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/157448987029) for this fic :-) 
> 
> tj sent me this [sketch](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/157535414989)!!!
> 
> [ashton](http://himesamaroso.tumblr.com/) drew [this](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/157579888344) for me because i "write[ ] amazing stories and [he] enjoy[s] Suffering because of [me]."
> 
> [hannah](https://notconsolation.tumblr.com/) surprised me with this FUCKING AMAZING [drawing](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/159910863324), holy fucking shit,
> 
> [pantaloonwarrior](http://pantaloonwarrior.tumblr.com/) did [this](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/160093944194) and i'm screaming
> 
> [holvegsantu](http://instagram.com/holvegsantu)'s [piece of art](https://instagram.com/p/BVBeawQFaFH/) inspired by this fic is utterly haunting and gorgeous
> 
> [tyler](https://josh-ur-dun.tumblr.com/) has contributed to the [josh art](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/166608506149)!
> 
> it's still so overwhelming to me that people continue to make art inspired by this fic, even after all this time, so seeing [ana](https://www.instagram.com/younger.dreams/)'s rendition of [josh](https://instagram.com/p/BeBoq-XlSWN/) brought me to tears


End file.
